Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Gyno Tale

A few nights ago, Wiener and I went out with two other couples. One couple we both knew and the other I had only met the wife once. She seemed pretty cool the time I met her, so I thought this would be a good group to hang with. 

The friend who set this up knew the second couple really well and she told us the husband was a gynecologist. She asked us not to mention we knew like perhaps it was supposed to be on the down-low or a secret. It could also be because she knew I'd start asking him vagina related questions and she just wanted to have a nice night out without things getting out of hand for a change. Fine, I'll zip it.

But with this knowledge it got me wondering about how this guy socialized beyond other gynos. Like when meeting new people does he say, "I'm a gyno. I play with vaginas all day." Or is it vaginae? I mean it must really be difficult for him to meet new people or hang out with those not in his line of work because you know it is inevitable someone will either be snickering at you quietly or making crude comments.

I can just hear it now, especially living in Texas (warning: stereotyping) surrounded by manly men and rednecks. Redneck- "So doc, what do you do?" Doc- "I'm a gynecologist." Redneck "Oh really, that's cool. So, I guess you're elbow deep in beaver all day. Tell me, do you ever roofie them and have a little fun?" Doc- "No, I am a professional physician, plus usually there is a nurse in the room with me." Redneck- "Aw man, maybe you should roofie them both next time and gimme a holler!" 

Also, speaking of gynecologists, a friend once made the offhanded comment that she doesn't need to do kegels because her gyno checks her and says shes fine. Come again?

A few of us were out having drinks one night and we were talking about inappropriate stuff, as per usual, like Brazilians and manscaping. The topic somehow lead to kegels. Lola and I said we were too lazy to do them. Another friend says she does them and her gynecologist checks her. Lola and I gave each other a sly wtf look and said "huh?"

She explained that her gyno 'slips a finger in there' and tells her to squeeze so her muscle control and tightness can be checked. Um, hello? Isn't that the opening sequence to a porno called 'Debbie Does the Doctor?'

Lola and I were in utter disbelief and laughed. She was like "What? Don't all gynos do that?" And (to semi-quote a fave Friend's line) I said, "Yes, yes they do. In women's prison!"

We laughed, but it was an awkward moment. A quick poll later among a few other female friends revealed that no one else we know has a gynecologist that performs this test. Interesting.

So either her gynecologist is practicing some new cutting edge medical technique or he is a super perv. Maybe I should call my new gynecologist friend and ask him. Or better yet, I'll wait until our next outing and ask in front of everyone, "Hey doc, do you do kegel checks on women whilst you have your hand up their vajay-jays?" Good times. 

The Super Kegel Exerciser. Aw yeah.
image via

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Friends with Guns and Invisible Murderers

Freaky shit has been going on around my house this past week. It's bad enough Devil Baby always tells me she sees ghosts and monsters in the house, but when you experience things yourself it's a whole different story.

Last week, Wiener had to go out of town for a one night business trip. This doesn't happen often, so no biggie. I used to hate sleeping alone in the house, but after having the girls and getting used to it, it didn't seem to bother me much. After all, I went from checking under the bed every night for murderous clowns for years, even when Wiener was home, to only checking for them when he leaves town. That's a pretty big accomplishment. I do sleep with a knife under my pillow when he does leave, but at least I don't even check the closets at all anymore. (Please do not take that as an invitation to come hide in my closet- I'll cut a motherfucker.)

So the day he left, the kids were at school and I was in the office at home working for about an hour after he'd gone when I heard the familiar 'beep beep' of the alarm when a door or window opens. At first it didn't register, then I thought 'Shit! Wiener's outta town!'

I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and stared towards my bedroom as this would be the only entry point someone could open a door without me physically hearing the door but only the beep. And I waited. The bedroom doors were closed so I watched to see if they opened. Now maybe I was being overly sensitive since recently reading about the Madwoman's ordeal. After all, it was 10:30am in broad daylight and surely neighbors were home and out and about in the hood. But our lot is big and heavily wooded, so anything's possible.

To be cautious, I left out of the garage and slunk around the outside of the house with my serrated butcher knife checking doors. We have six exterior doors so that's lots of points o'entry. When I got to the master bedroom door off the deck, I turned the knob-- and it was unlocked! Holyfuck.

Until this point I had been sure I was being ridiculous. I quickly locked the door with my key. (Yes, I locked the would be murderers inside.) I started calling and texting some friends to come check the house for me. I'm kind of anti-social so I haven't really made the effort to hang with any of my closest neighbors. Plus, the two flanking me were gone at work and the other two across the street are old. I didn't want to be responsible for getting two old dudes killed by murderous home invaders. You are probably asking why I did not just call the police. I don't know either. No one knows why I do what I do.

Lola was nearby, but refused to come over and help me look for murderers in the house. Apparently picking up her kids from early dismissal at school was more important. Whatever. Stupid minions! Finally, a male friend, let's call him Pepe, agreed to come rescue me. He is a Marine, former police officer and black belt.

To kill time waiting for him to arrive, I chatted with Raquel on the phone. She thought it would be fun to have casual chit chat to keep my mind off the murderers hiding in my house waiting to kill me. So she regaled me with stories of how she saw a shadowy figure in her house recently who she thought was her husband walking around, but he ended up being asleep, so it was probably a ghost. Not helping. Then she wondered if I ever saw the movie where people would hide in homeowners' attics and live there and only come down at night to creep around the house and eat while the homeowners were sleeping. Um, I missed that one... kill me now!

Pepe finally arrived and came gangsta style around the side of my house with a glock drawn by his side. (It may not have been a glock, but that's the only gun name I know and it sounds cool.) I let him in the house through the deck door. He instructed me to stay a few steps behind. He checked under my bed, then went into the bathroom while I stayed in the room. That's when I noticed my bedroom doors to the main house were wide open. Remember earlier when I was in the kitchen watching those same closed doors waiting for them to open in the event someone had crept in? Well they were wide open now. Holyfuck part deux. My heart dropped and I began shaking and said in a pitiful voice "Those doors were closed when I left the house." He went into badass mode and I got the hell out of there and fled back outside.

I could see into a few windows and saw him dashing from room to room like a Rambo-Ninja-Boss pivoting, ducking, turning, pointing the weapon, looking under furniture and in cabinets. At one point he came out asking if we have another attic entry and I told him where it was. I spent my time outside listening for a gunshot and trying to figure out where we'd move if there was an intruder in the house 'cause I wasn't going back in there, ever. Finally, he was done and we went through the house a third time together. He said he checked all the deadbolts and they were locked from the inside and I was satisfied no one was there.

When he left I was still uneasy so I took off to the store and set the alarm when leaving. Upon returning home from the store, all was in order and I had lunch and chilled. I left to pick up Fifi from school and when we got back 20 minutes later, we came in and everything was fine, until I walked by a side hall exterior door and saw that it was unlocked. What? The? Fuck? I calmly told Fifi to get in the car so we could get Devil Baby from school. I called Raquel and she was like "What the hell? Does someone have a key and they're fucking with you?!" I had no idea. I checked with Pepe again and he said he hadn't unlocked any doors and thought he checked them all. Maybe this one was overlooked?

I called a friend from an adjoining neighborhood and she came over with a shotgun. This is Texas, y'all. Everyone's packing heat. We cleared the house again and I chalked it all up to accidentally leaving it unlocked. Wiener called and he was in the car with business associates. He suggested I call Pepe and have him come spend the night. Then suggested another male friend spend the night. The business associates were probably wondering why he was trying to get some men to come spend the night with his wife. (boom chaka wow wow) In the end, my mom came and spent the night and no murderers got us.

But, two days later, when all was calm and back to normal, Wiener was out late at a meeting and I was home cooking dinner for the kids. Devil Baby came running from the front of the house to the back stairs baby gate and said "I want to go upstairs," like she always says. Then she said over and over, "Somebody's upstairs, somebody's upstairs, I want to go upstairs, somebody's upstairs!" Jeezus Christ!!! We also have a front stairwell that's baby gated off and that was the area in the front of the house where she had been playing. Sometimes she says she sees ghosts or monsters, but never does she say somebody's upstairs. Did she see something upstairs? At this point dinner was almost done and I was hungry, so I was all, "Fuck the intruders, we're staying." I didn't let Devil Baby go upstairs and finally Wiener got home and nobody has been murdered yet, but I'll let you know how that goes.

So, in case you're keeping score, that's thrice something weird has happened this week.

Invisible murderers=3  Crazy Bitch=0

Pepe thinks this is what he looks like.
He is incorrect.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Save the Toilet Paper

Fucking Devil Baby threw three rolls of toilet paper in the toilet. I guess technically that is where toilet paper goes. And it's probably my fault. We were tidying up and I asked her to put them in the toilet area of the bathroom. And, since she's smart, she knows toilet paper goes in the toilet. And, since she's also stupid  a toddler, this was her best effort at putting the rolls where they belong.

Instinctively, I began pulling them out of the toilet trying to "save" them thinking I didn't want to waste three whole rolls. Toilet paper is a currency worth more than its weight gold around this house, especially with three girls and Wiener's fondness for deuce dropping. If I had my wits about me, I would have snapped a picture to share before snatching them out.

Not a spanking clean toilet. I would not eat an egg out of this.
To clarify, (Lola), that is an empty toilet paper roll she also threw in. 

Dry-out area.

It is not lost on me that the idea of pulling them out of the toilet with the intention to let them dry out and use them is pretty gross. Even if the toilet is spanking clean, it can still be pretty germarific. 

This issue has been troubling philosophers for eons: If a toilet is sparkling clean and has been Cloroxed to death (not my particular toilet, just a toilet in general, cause that never happens around here) and scrubbed with antibacterial cleaner, is it still germ infested? Won't the germs already on my butt repel the incoming tainted toilet paper germs or does festering all alone on a clean toilet for days make them super-germs and they will spring ninja-like from the dried paper and infiltrate my buttocks with unfathomable strength and make me violently ill? Confucius knows not. 

This situation reminds me of how Raquel must cover her beverage if anyone farts in her vicinity so the poop particles from the smell do not get in her drink and she swallows them. True story. There is more reasoning behind why, but I don't want to steal her thunder. Or did I already? Too late.

But back to the germ debate. Many things were taken into consideration when deciding if I should attempt the dry-out process and risk the stealthy super-germs or cut my losses and toss them. Then I remembered I once pulled a peeled hard boiled egg from the depths of the garbage disposer, rinsed it off and ate it without dying, so wiping my ass with toilet paper that is infested with the same butt germs can't be worse than that. Right?

What? I was pregnant and really looking forward to that egg. It was delicious.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

What Not to Wear to a Funeral

Putting together an ensemble for a funeral is nerve racking. You want to be appropriate and respectful, yet presentable.

Unfortunately, I am attending a funeral this week for a dear old family friend. Thankfully, I have not been in this dilemma too often. I have experienced my share of loss, but luckily instances have been few and far between. I'm not sure if this means I'm blessed to be surrounded by healthy people or I don't have any friends so I can't lose to death what I don't have.

So here's my dilemma... I am fair skinned and blonde. This presents a problem for me in picking out funeral wear. Black and gray are not flattering on me. I know most people, even blondes, swear by a LBD (little black dress) but black has always just been harsh on me. Now I know a funeral is not all about me, I do have some manners, but I prefer not looking like an Addams' family member while paying my respects.

Also, what shoes do you wear? I can't wear heels without falling, but I have an assload of wedges and espadrilles. Are they appropriate? Should you wear open toed shoes? Do I have time for a pedi? These seem like petty questions at a time such as this.

I don't want to look like I'm going to a business meeting either, but I do have a black suit jacket. And wool slacks. But it's summer in Texas so I would be sweating like whore in church for reasons other than the usual ones.

Buying something new just seems like a waste. Or perhaps it's tempting fate to have a 'funeral outfit' as if I'm asking for more people to die just so I can wear my special outfit. On the other hand, I have an old black dress with red and fuchsia rosette flowers that I could wear. It is very matronly. There go my chances of getting laid. Wait, I said funeral, not wedding. Also, I'm married. Dammit.

Interestingly, figuring out what to wear is not my only dilemma. Apparently, I have all sorts of issues.

Not to make light of a somber event, I do have a hard time expressing myself seriously in emotionally charged situations. I have a tendency to make bad jokes or say inappropriate things. I don't like people to be upset or be sad or cry- it's against my nature. Unless they're my children and I'm yelling at them or threatening spankings. I guess I use humor to deflect from dealing with difficult emotions or uncomfortable situations.

Case in point: The last funeral I went to was for another family friend I had not seen in many years. When I saw the decedent's husband, I hugged him, smiled and said "Hi. It's been a long time. So, how have you been?" Epic Fail.

With that in mind, I am nervous about going to the service later this week. My mother has already asked me to be prepared to offer to bring food over for the family if they need it. When she told me this I responded with, "Oh, like bring food to the house if they have an after party?" Oy vey. 

The white glasses makes this ensemble tres chic and funeral appropos.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

50 Shades of Walmart

I feel bad using a play on 50 Shades of Grey since I haven't read the book nor do I ever plan to. I have nothing against the book, it's just that if I need a dose of soft-core porn I'll simply turn on Cinemax. I'm too lazy to read a book to get my jollies. Immediate visual gratification is better. Too far?

Anyway- I went to the new neighborhood Walmart store today and stupidity was in abundance:

As I walked in and hit the produce department, a lady flew past, cut me off and stopped directly in front of the veggies I was heading for. Did she quickly grab some lettuce and go? No. She got her phone out and started texting and stood there forever while I waited. I had been bok blocked.

Then another lady pulled her cart directly in front of me and stopped in the soup aisle as I was looking for soup. She went about her business looking elsewhere, but it was obvious I was shopping from the shelf she stopped in front of and blocked. I loudly said "I'll come back since it wasn't obvious that I was trying to get something from the shelf you stopped directly in front of." Fifi looked aghast and waited for the fallout, but it never came. She was an older lady and part of me felt bad because she was semi-elderly and I said something rude. The other part of me wanted to punch her in the face.

As I was checking out, the clerk who was scanning and bagging my groceries stopped when she scanned a three pack of Starkist tuna and said, "This has high mercury content." I didn't really understand her so I said "excuse me" thinking maybe she was trying to tell me they were on sale and I should get more. She then said "Doctor Oz said this has a high mercury content and that's why I don't buy it."

Seriously? I don't give a fuck what you buy, lady. I politely said, "Yes I am aware it has a high mercury content, but we don't eat it often so I'm sure it's fine." Do I really have to defend my grocery purchases to the cashier at checkout? It's bad enough they have to see when I buy tampons, Imodium and KY His and Hers (I don't really buy that, maybe) but she must also give me a lesson on nutrition from something she learned on tv?

She went on and on about it and was telling me we should eat salmon instead and how good salmon is for you. She had stopped ringing up my things to tell me this. I had Fifi and Devil Baby with me and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. It was after school so naturally they were cranky-tired-hungry-fidgety. I am really at my everloving whit's end with cashiers and clerks, but that's a whole other post, possibly even another blog entirely, so I will stop there.

The clincher was in the parking lot as I loaded the groceries. There was a dog left in the car next door to mine who was barking. The windows were cracked, but this is Texas people. Sadly, we can't even turn on the tv without hearing about a child or someone dying from being left in a car in the heat. Everyone knows it's at least twenty degrees higher inside a car than outside. Well, maybe not everyone. Everyone is stupid, after all. It was about 90 degrees this day. 

Fifi pointed out there was a kid in the car with the dog and also another kid left in another car nearby. The kids seemed to be teens- maybe tweleve to fourteen, but still. I wanted to call the cops or wait for the drivers to come out, but alas, I'm not the parenting police. I didn't think there really was immediate danger, except from maybe kidnappers. Again, I can't control what everyone else is doing. I can barely take care of my own minions in between glasses of wine. Next time I'll remember to snap a pic and post it on  people of Walmart  or bad parents of Walmart, whatever is the most appropriate. 

As for the rude shoppers, I don't know what else to do but put spikes on my shopping cart wheels and stab them in the ankles the next time they pull this crap.

Also, from now on I'm pretending to speak a foreign language at check out so I don't have to put up with the cashiers' psychobabble. 

OMFG. This was exactly the scene and so could have been me!
 Blonde, two young girls and an Asian cashier.
Me staring in disgust and kids running amok, only my ass is bigger.
photo credit

Monday, September 10, 2012

Crap I Do Not Have Time For

I follow a few pages on Facebook that I think are interesting and fun. Some are crafty, not that I am at all, but they're fun to look at.

Note I said Facebook and not Pinterest. I refuse to get on Pintertest. Well, it may be less of refusal and more of no one will invite me.But who wants to be a part of an elitist enclave that humiliates you by forcing members to have to ask/beg to join? me* 

If you're lucky enough to have people automatically send you an invitation, that's great. But for those who have to ask for an invitation and never get one, it's quite the let down and opens the whole getting picked last for dodge-ball wound all over again. 

Anyway, one page I follow is a parenting page and they post interesting ideas for parents. I know what you're thinking. She's following a Parenting Page? Jeez, if anyone needs to brush up on their parenting skills, it's that bitch. Indeed.

Some things shared on the parenting page are really cute and creative. Some are absolutely ridiculous. Again, you decide:

I don't have enough time to get MY chores done, never-mind spending additional frustrating time 
convincing my kids to do theirs because they'll get to move a stupid clothespin from one side to the other. 
Plus, they didn't just fall off the turnip truck; they'd move those puppies from one side to the 
other in a heartbeat and proclaim they're done without lifting a finger.

The chances of me having all these items in the fridge and pantry combined with the 
chances of me actually finding the time to put said items together like this are slim to none.

Cute, but I prefer not to eat things with faces. Unless it's beef or chicken. Too far?

Again with the faces? Also, who has time for wrapping them? Slap a paper towel around them and you're good to go.

Um, hello? I don't have time to even do the laundry and you think I have time to make cutesy  
hanger signs, plus color coordinate and hang outfits for the whole motherfucking week?

Yes, I want to be picking up fruit loops and marshmallows off the floor for the next two weeks. 
Just what I always wanted.

If I have time to shop for these ingredients, I have time to just buy the paint. 
Also, this screams paint fight.

Someone needs to get laid.

I have no patience for cutting food into cutesy shapes. Also the skewer  is a weapon for eye stabbing. 
Devil Baby doesn't need help with her serial killer training.

Admittedly, most of the ideas above and on the parenting site in general are really cute and fun, but some are way over the top and seemingly designed to shame other parents. Like, if we're not cutting our kid's food into cutesy shapes and color coordinating their closets with day by day outfits, then they will become soulless creatures and unproductive members of society. 

If that's the case, then so be it. It's a cold, hard world out there and no one cuts my cheese into heart shapes. Maybe if they did I wouldn't be bitchy all the time and need so much vodka. 

Wait, it sounds like I'm making a case for doing these things. Let me finish my vodka and get back with you on my stance.  

* I am a liar. Between the time I wrote this and the time I posted it, I joined Pinterest. Kill me now. One step closer to becoming a Mom-Bot.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Reasons Fifi Will Need Therapy

Today Fifi turns 9. Holy shitballs, how did I get this old? If you're keeping track, Devil Baby turned 3 a little over a week ago.

Their birthdays are about 11 days apart. My estimated due date was September 6 for Fifi and September 5 for Devil Baby. Wiener's sperm are quite punctual, I suppose. I actually went into labor on my due date at 11pm with Fifi and she was born the next morning. Maybe that was a foreshadowing of her anxiety about being late for things.

With Devil Baby, they induced me on August 27. They said it was because my stomach was too little and she had no more room to grow. The hell? My standing theory is that she was due on Labor Day weekend and the doctor didn't want to miss his golf game. But enough about the Devil Baby who came along and stole all the attention and sleep.

Back to Fifi: Our parenting style has always been ultra unorthodox. It probably has more to do with me wanting to do things my way instead of by the book, because I'm controlling and neurotic like that. That said, some of our techniques and things we allow may come back and royally screw us in the form of hefty therapy bills.

Probably due to this, Fifi has developed a slew of irrational fears most likely brought on by our over protectiveness of the first born, or as a result of our questionable parenting techniques. You be the judge.

1. While other toddlers were watching Baby Einstein, Fifi was sucking her thumb and intently watching scary movies like 13 Ghosts with her dad. To this day, she likes scary types of movies and shows. She has passed on her penchant for the bizarre to Devil Baby who loves "spooky doody doo" and all three of them love watching The Walking Dead.

2. She is overly fascinated with true crime and medical shows. Once at a party, all the adults were talking and she hissed "SHHHHSHH!" She was watching Snapped and she couldn't hear all of the autopsy details.

3. If she falls asleep while watching shows like Bones and CSI she always asks me the next day "who was the killer?"

4. Whenever she whines about doing a chore or task I tell her, "If you don't like it, get your shit and get out." (That line was stolen from a friend, but I think it is an excellent solution to whinny or disobedient kids.)

5. When she was a toddler, she would hide in clothes racks at stores. No matter what I said, she wouldn't stop. One day I told her a story about a boy who hid from his mommy in clothes racks and a bad man kidnapped him and cut off his head and threw him in a canal. She never hid in clothes again. #morereasonsimgoingtohell

6. She loves the shows Man, Woman, Wild and Dual Survivor. Though she's intrigued by their survival skills, she has a lingering sense of abandonment like we're going to drop her in the jungles of Cambodia with one match and a handkerchief and say "See you at home- good luck!" Maybe there is a recurring theme here. Perhaps too much tv is taking place?

But I think deep down her fear has brought on a sense of maturity, responsibility and intelligence beyond her years. She has a clear plan outlined in the event of a tornado warning and has the foresight to bring water and snacks into the closet.

She will either need decades of therapy or she'll become a forensic scientist. Also, when the zombie apocalypse hits, she'll be the leader of the new world and celebrated for her bad-ass survival skills and zombie killing prowess.

Happy Birthday Fifi! 

WTF Mom?

My little 'Hood'lum.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Aw, You Shouldn't Have...

It's been a few weeks, but I was nominated by Tracy over at Momaical for two blogger awards. Better late than never, unless it's your period and your boyfriend told you he had a vasectomy. I'm still not sure if they are deserved or if she added me to her list in some drunken typographic error. I mean, my posts are more snarky than sunshine-y and if by versatile you mean I can use the work fuck in a plethora of combinations to keep it fresh, then that's cool.

S is for Sassy.
V is for Vagina

But I am truly honored and appreciative of her to include me in one of her posts and to actually nominate me. She is the first blogger whom I don't know in person that started to follow my blog and she is great about posting comments.

So, along with these awards you must perform certain rituals or rites of passage. Or, as I like to call them, homework. I never did my homework in school, so why should I start now? Christ these questions are nosy.

The Sunshine Award asks the following questions: 

1.) What would you most like to change about yourself? Nothing. I'm fucking awesome. Wow, that was narcissistic. Um, let's see... I'd change my innards so that I wasn't so gassy all the time.       

2.) What is your theme song? Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind.
3.) One part of your life, a memory, action, etc. that you wish you could surgically remove from your brain? I can't remember. I have mom-nesia.

4.) What generation do you wish you’d been a part of? I'm not sure. I like the allure of the hippie-esque 60's era and I'm also intrigued by history, so living in 1800-1900's Europe might be cool. But I like modern creature comforts, so I think I'll stay where I am and enjoy my ac and chilled Moscato.     

5.) What was your favorite childhood toy? GI Joe. Because I liked taking them away from my little brother.      

6.) What is your favorite household chore? Seriously? How about this- the one I detest the least is loading the dishwasher. I like organizing items to fit as much in as possible. But make no mistake, my house isnot organized.     

7.) Do you twitter? I have an account and sometimes surf peoples twits, or tweets, or twats, or whatever the young kids are calling them these days. I've yet to send one out there. I'm still trying to figure out how to load a profile piture.    

8.) Any goals? To finish these questions.

9.) Do you really drink margaritas all the time? No, I like to mix it up. Wine, good. Vodka, good. Rum, good.      

10.) What’s the ugliest car you’ve ever driven? I don't think any of them were ugly per say. The most interesting one was a mid-1980's baby blue Renault Alliance. I took French in high school and thought having a French car was the shit.

The Versatile Blogger asks you for 7 random facts about yourself.  I'm not sure you want to know these things. It is a very risky thing asking a smart ass like me.

1. I love dark chocolate.

2. If my house was on fire, the order of who to save would be Devil Baby, Fifi, Cat Holly, Cat Pumpkin, then Husband Wiener. Poor Wiener.

3. I was born with a hole in my heart. No, that's not the first line to the country song I wrote. It's for real. I didn't need surgery and it closed on its own.  

4. One of my legs is longer than the other. Or one leg is shorter. I guess it's one of those glass half empty kinds of things. I wear a heel lift in one shoe to raise the affected side to the proper height.

5. Do I really have to do seven? I'm bored with myself already. I make jokes and laugh at inappropriate times, like during funerals or when people are crying about their divorces.

6. I hate flying. Despite the statistics, I still say it's a 50/50 chance you'll live. Either the plane will crash or it won't. See how that works?

7. I like to eat ketchup on my scrambled eggs. I'm out of random facts, so this will have to do.

So now I'm supposed to nominate some other blogs. It didn't say how many, so I'll go with five. Also, it didn't say if they should be new blogs or ones that have been around a while, so I hope I don't look like an idiot nominating some long time blogger who has already received these awards. 

Imogen, Undiluted- Like Bridget Jones but funnier and much better looking.

The Bitchy Truth- I love bitchiness.

Ruthless Raquel- An amateur comedian in her head. And snarky to boot.

The Defensive Firearm Diaries- I'm a Pacifist, but I'm scared not to nominate her.

Jeez. I'm stuck at four. Apparently I read a lot of more well known blogs than newer ones, so nominating them would be pointless. I guess this means I need to get off my lazy ass and find some fresh bloggers to mingle with. But these four are people I truly enjoy reading and feel honestly are deserving of a shout out.

Thank you and good night!

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Wiener Tried to Kill Devil Baby

In a strange twist of events, or possibly a strategic move to stop her before she becomes a serial killer, Wiener tried to kill Devil Baby today.

He took her to pick up Fifi after school because my car is in the shop and needs $2500 in repairs. I made him do the carpool schlepping so I could wallow in a glass of Moscato about the impending expenditure that puts my dream of an impromptu beach vacation further out of reach.

I thought they'd be gone for a bit and probably would make a stop at the store to pick up some candy, because he's the awesome dad and I'm the nasty-witch-mom-fun-police. Selfish bastard. Wiener stuffs them with candy and junk food and watches inappropriate movies, then I get to swoop in and shriek like a banshee about bath time and teeth brushing.

With that in mind, I thought I'd have at least 30-45 minutes to bask in solitude whilst boozing it up or perhaps watch a quick episode of Weeds in blissful silence.

Suddenly, my motley crew stormed in through the garage door with Wiener yelling "I think Devil Baby has heat stroke!"

What the fuck? They've literally been gone 15 minutes.

Wiener is the only father I know that can take a simple task with the kids and turn it into a life threatening debacle within minutes.

Exhibit A:

When out with a girlfriend and other friends to celebrate our birthdays, I get a text from Wiener that says "Devil Baby has diarrhea and I'm out of wipes! It's a shitstorm here! She just shit in the bathtub!" Welcome to my world.

Exhibit B:

I traveled to Europe in 2007 for a once in a lifetime opportunity to go to Wimbledon with my ancient grandfather, who is a former champion. Two days into the trip, I get frantic texts and calls that "Fifi has a temperature of 105! What should I do?" Jesus Christ! I thought a. Call the doctor, dumbass and 2. Fifi never gets sick. What has he done?!

Now before me is Devil Baby, who is beet red and super hot. Her heart is racing and I keep thinking what the hell- this never happens on my watch! Granted it's summer time in Texas and the temperature is 1 billion degrees. 

But, come on, they were gone 15 minutes for crying out loud! We were outside all day on Saturday swimming, cooking out and running around in the heat and this never happened. Wiener must have done something wrong.

So I gave Devil Baby a juice box and got a damp washcloth to help cool her down. Finally, the redness went away and she wasn't so hot anymore. She's feeling like her old self and will be wielding a meat cleaver in no time so she can go back to narrowing down her serial killer weapon of choice. 

In retrospect, I have come to the conclusion this is all a well orchestrated plot by Wiener to ensure he will never have to tend to the kids himself ever again.

Little does he know of my five year plan to kill him off and use the insurance money to buy a secluded island in the Caribbean, so his game of 'pawn the minions on the wife at all costs' is simply child's play in comparison.

Remember that line from the movie Adventures In Babysitting- "Do not fuck with the babysitter!" 
Do not fuck with her, indeed.

Here is the private island I plan to buy when I off Wiener.
(Disclaimer: I do not really plan to off Wiener- just a joke!)

Monday, September 3, 2012

Vagina Ramblings

I've been surfing around the internet reading various blogs looking for funny ones, mostly to entertain myself, but also to see who is successful and who is not. And if they are successful, why?

I found plenty of blogs that give you tips on how to be funny, market your blog and be successful. I'm not necessarily in it for success or money, but if that happens, bonus. My reason for starting a blog was to give myself an outlet to share stories, observations and musings.

One blog I came across gave a list of dos and don'ts on how to be funny in a post. Which made me wonder what made this blogger an expert on what is funny and what is not, so I read some of the blog posts. I didn't find them particularly funny and I didn't really agree with some of the tips either, but to each his own.

Some of the tips resembled:

1. Don't mention in the blog post how funny you are. Well, duh.

2. Swearing is the lazy blogger's way of getting a laugh. Intelligent people won't find it funny and they won't continue reading. The fuck? Swearing is my only talent. Plus, akin to how Chelsea Handler doesn't trust people who don't drink, I don't trust people who don't swear.

3. Use childish teenage boy humor such as fart, poop and boobies. Um, if intelligent people don't like swearing, what is going to make them read a post about poop and farts? Contradictory much? Though I agree bodily function humor offers a wealth of hilarious scenarios.

4. Make fun of yourself and not others. That's just boring. Everyone likes to hear about stupid things other people do. Think America's Funniest Home Videos. Also, if that's true, how to you explain the popularity of reality shows?

My thoughts are that humor is subjective. What makes me laugh and pee my pants may not even make you raise an eyebrow. And what you think is funny, I might find lame and dull. So, write what's in your heart and you will be appreciated by those with a similar funny bone.

One thing the post said that I think we can all agree on is--- the word vagina is always funny.

I could not agree more.

In fact, I was chopping jalapenos the other day and when I went to the bathroom I must have accidentally grazed my nether regions because shortly thereafter my vagina was on fire.

See how I did that? I made fun of myself, didn't swear, used bathroom humor and said vagina. I guess that blogger would think I'm hilarious. Oops- can't talk about being funny.

How about this:

As a teenager, I didn't really understand how tampons worked, but I wanted to try them. I imagined the freedom and carefree bliss experienced by the women wearing flowy dresses in tampon commercials. However, still being a virgin, I was completely clueless about vagina holes. So, I stuck the whole tampon between my legs- not fully inserted- and left it there, plastic applicator and all. I walked around all day a bloody mess in extreme discomfort thinking tampons sucked and everyone was fucking stupid.

If my vagina could talk it would have said, "We're shutting down the ovaries now in case you are legitimately raped or have legitimate sex because you're so stupid you don't need to pro-create in any event." To which I would have then responded "Please do, because if a tiny tampon applicator is this uncomfortable, I don't want to know what a watermelon squirting out of my ladybits feels like."

Sadly, the conversation never happened and fast forward 20 years I've had a watermelon and a cantaloupe pushed out of it.

The moral of this rambling post? Vaginas are funny and everyone is stupid, including me?

No. Don't wait until it's too late; talk to your vagina as often as possible to prevent these situations. Also, tampons need better instructions.

If this ad was from my youth,  I would have
thought using tampons made you a ballerina.